Pathetic
by I-Can-Spell-Confusion-With-A-K
Summary: Granger was dead. Granger was dead and everyone was acting like the sun had burnt out, like life was no longer worth living, like they should all just walk straight into the lake with their mouths open and drown. Pathetic.


Author's Note: This told in first person from Draco's perspective, his name isn't mentioned but it should be pretty obvious that it's him. The story follows book cannon except of course for the death that is in this story but not in the book, which rules out the epilogue of course. Please review if you have a second! Thanks for reading!

**PATHETIC**

Granger was dead.

Granger was dead and everyone was acting like the sun had burnt out, like life was no longer worth living, like they should all just walk straight into the lake with their mouths open and drown.

Pathetic.

What did they expect? It was a war, people died. Granger wasn't any more special than the hundred other poor fools whose bodies had been scattered lifelessly across the school's grounds after the Dark Lord had attacked. There probably wasn't one person in Hogwarts who hadn't lost someone they cared about, hadn't seen someone they knew murdered right in front of their eyes, most people had seen too many to count. But once they found Granger's body, nobody remembered anyone else. Over a hundred bloody casualties and all they can think about is one bushy-haired Mudblood who got herself killed in an utterly stupid way and then left the rest of them to clean up after her.

Pathetic.

Granger had gotten off easy anyway. A quick and simple _Avada Kedavra_, a flash of green light, and that had been it. She never saw it coming…she never felt a thing… lucky, lucky Mudblood. I have seen far worse ways to die. I have seen torture and mutilation and the kind of complete and utter hopelessness that only comes from knowing you are about to die and there's nothing you can do about it. All she had to do was put her head down and run into a circle of Death Eaters, full of that suicidal Gryffindor stupidity, and it was over. I heard she was trying to save that Creevy kid, the one who snuck back in even though he was underage. I heard the Death Eaters got him anyway. I heard he might have already been dead when she went rushing in to save him. They're probably holding hands and skipping around Mudblood heaven right now.

Pathetic.

A few months after the battle all the former students got an owl asking them to return. McGonagall had brought them all into the Great Hall and told them the school was re-opening, asked them…no begged them…to come back, to start over, to begin again…but no one was buying it. No one wanted to come back to what amounted to a mausoleum. Then Potter was on his feet, doing what he does best, making a speech, making sure all eyes are always on him…and then he was saying her name…_Hermione_…_think of Hermione_…_we have to go on_…_she'd want us all to continue our studies_… Of course, she would, Potter. Granger was so convinced that books could tell her everything. Didn't tell her how to keep her scrawny Mudblood neck out of harm's way though, did they, Potter? There were a lot of empty seats in the Great Hall that day. But all anyone could think about was Granger.

Pathetic.

At first there were a lot of tears. There were tears and speeches, and even a bloody statue dedicated to her. They put it out by the lake, and everyone gathered around it, and made more speeches, and cried some more, and everyone said…_it's perfect_…_Hermione would love it_…and went on with their day. I went to see it once. Call it morbid curiosity. As soon as I saw it I knew how delusional her little friends were, because it looked nothing like her. Statue Granger had precisely curled, smooth hair that bore no resemblance to the bushy mop that belonged to the real Granger, the dead Granger. Statue Granger had perfect posture and a confident little smile that almost bordered on becoming a smirk. Dead Granger had always hunched her shoulders forward, probably developing a hunchback from all that incessant reading. Dead Granger had spent a lot of time frowning and a lot of time grinning like an idiot, but she never smirked confidently out at the world. They were trying to make her a hero. Granger wasn't a hero. They probably got a muggle to make the statue. That would probably appeal to their desire to mend the gap between wizards and muggles…_we can do it for Hermione_. But they should have just done it by magic, or better yet not made the stupid statue at all…because that rock wasn't Granger.

Pathetic.

After awhile the speeches became few and far between, the tears became less frequent, and eventually no one talked about her at all. Every once in awhile someone would slip, forget their unspoken agreement…_remember when Hermione_…_Hermione always said_…_Hermione used to_… And then they'd all get quiet, and later maybe they'd go visit the bloody statue, and leave some ugly flowers at the feet of the ugly statue that didn't look anything like the ugly Mudblood anyway. Then they'd forget again.

Pathetic.

Finally it got to the point where I forgot too. I forgot to laugh at how shallow her friends were, how Potter and the Weasley girl could stand on the grounds and snog each other senseless not five feet from where she died, how the flowers on her statue were dead, how no one made any speeches anymore. They forgot, and I forgot, and why shouldn't everyone forget? Granger was no hero, just a girl who was so stupid she ran straight into a killing curse.

Pathetic.

Then a day came that wasn't special at all. It wasn't the anniversary of her death, or her birthday, or any other sorry excuse to remember her, it was just another meaningless day in a long string of meaningless days almost a year after the battle had ended. I went to the library on this meaningless day to get a book for History of Magic. It was a boring task for a boring class on a boring day, and I seemed to be the only one bothering to use the library on a Saturday. But I was proved wrong, proved wrong about so many things, when I rounded the corner and saw an occupied table at the back of the library. It was Weasley. He had his head bent forward, that stupid, flaming ginger hair sticking out everywhere, his head buried in a musty old copy of "Hogwarts a History", clutching it to him like a life preserver. I almost shouted something at him. I almost threw the book in my hand, imagining what it would sound like as it hit the stupid git on the back of his thick skull. I almost did, but I didn't. Instead I just stood there, and watched while he took a deep breath that must have been full of dust, and then I realized he was actually _sniffing_ the book…he was smelling it…the creepy prat was smelling a hundred year old book…and then his shoulders started shaking with violent sobs, and I imagined his slimy, blood traitor snot running all over the book…

Pathetic.

Only it wasn't exactly. Because as much of an idiot as Weasley was, I knew at that moment, as I watched him trying to breath in a book, and bawling like a little girl in the library so long after it happened that it hardly mattered anymore…I knew that he got it. He got it, and so did I, and it didn't matter that he had loved her and I had hated her, because we were the only ones left who actually remembered the real Granger at all. So I left the library, and I pretended I hadn't seen Weasley at all. I wrote my essay for History of Magic, and ate seconds at dinner, and laughed when Blaise told a joke about Potter's girlfriend in the common room that night, and it wasn't until I was in my bed that night that I remembered. I remembered that Granger had been smarter than me. Not by a lot, and not in every subject, but still smarter. I remembered that Granger had always been able to say the exact thing that would make me hate her most, like saying I bought my way onto the Quidditch team, and how she could only do that because she paid attention, she _knew _everyone, even the ones who hated her. I remembered how Granger had looked pretty at the Yule ball. Not beautiful, not even remotely sexy, but still pretty. I remembered how Granger had slapped me in third year, the only person to ever humiliate me and not receive retribution. I remembered how I had hated her, hated her with a passion, but hadn't hit her back, hadn't cursed her, hadn't done anything at all.

Pathetic.

And then, alone in my bed, in the Slytherin dormitories, so long after it happened that it hardly mattered, and still hating her with every fiber of my being, I cried for stupid, bloody Hermione Granger.

_**Pathetic.**_


End file.
